


we're gonna rattle this ghost town

by starscry



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Feel-good, Karaoke, M/M, and lots of alcohol, edward fortyhands is also a game that still exists in the overwatch universe and idgaf, mutual misery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started, as many things did, with Reinhardt slamming his stein of beer on the table, pointing a thick finger in the air at nothing in particular as if to say <i>the most wonderful idea just struck me,</i> and loudly proclaiming, “We should listen to the classics!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're gonna rattle this ghost town

It started, as many things did, with Reinhardt slamming his stein of beer on the table, pointing a thick finger in the air at nothing in particular as if to say _the most wonderful idea just struck me,_ and loudly proclaiming, “We should listen to the classics!”

 

For the greater part of the day, the re-formed band of former and newly-initiated Overwatch operatives had been holed up inside a safehouse just off Route 66. A small few rooms built inconspicuously into the side of Deadlock Gorge that were primarily utilized years ago to monitor the Deadlock Gang. McCree can’t help but snort at the irony of this; the very base they had used to keep an eye on _him_. 

Not long into their temporary stay, one of the group ( _Lena_ , McCree surmised - it was _always_ Lena) managed to find a well-hidden stash of years-old alcohol. It was a decent collection; several bottles of vodka, a handle of whiskey that McCree had instantly claimed for himself, and a good amount of rum and beer. Dusty glasses from the base’s kitchenette were procured and washed, shots were measured out, and the festivities began. 

Lúcio, always keen to keep a party going, pulled a pair of powerful portable speakers from his backpack. Within minutes, he had them connected to his tablet and was pumping out music, much to the delight of everyone. McCree simply sat upon his makeshift chair of cardboard boxes, sipping whiskey and watching the others enjoy themselves. It was good to see them unwind; too often, they were deployed on mission after mission, tensions running high and relaxation at an all-time minimum. Rarely, if ever, were they granted small moments like these. Moments to just _be themselves_ , take off their armor and drop their weapons and enjoy life for an hour or three, forgetting about the burdens placed upon them.

Most were completely inebriated within two hours. Himself, Winston, Morrison, Zenyatta, Genji, and a brooding Hana, who had been expressly forbidden by Morrison to drink anything because _you are nineteen, young lady. Wait two years and maybe_ then _I’ll give you a sip_ , were the only members of the group not absolutely smashed. McCree noticed that one of the rickety old tables had been set up with alcohol-filled glasses from the kitchenette for a makeshift drinking game, and Zarya had an arm slung happily around Mei’s neck, a taking alternate drinks from the forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor she had duct taped to each hand as Lena goaded her on. The entire base was becoming quite raucous from the mix of Lúcio’s loud electronic music and the amount of boisterous drunken yelling going on. McCree enjoyed watching the trainwreck. He wasn’t one for participating much.

It was then that Reinhardt made his booming statement.

He sauntered over to Lúcio’s makeshift DJ booth, face flushed from the exorbitant amount of alcohol he had already consumed, and took control of the tablet. Lúcio, snickering and obviously enjoying how drunk the old man was, gladly handed it over. Reinhardt held the tablet delicately and yelled once more to get the attention of everyone in the room.

“We must karaoke!” the German shouted. A few cheers came from the band of operatives - namely Genji and Hana, jumping on the sudden chance to enjoy the night without being drunk themselves, Zarya, and Angela. The others seemed keen to watch whatever singing disaster was about to happen.

And so, after shouting once more that everyone must sing along to “the classic tale of a hero who is struck down, yet continues to persevere!” Reinhardt cranked the volume on the speakers all the way up and introduced the members of Overwatch to the glory of “Tubthumping.”

McCree could barely contain his laughter. He took another sip of whiskey, tapping a foot along with the beat, and watched with a shit-eating grin upon his face as Reinhardt, arm around Zarya, who also, surprisingly, knew the (very few) lyrics to the song, in tandem bellowed _I get knocked down, but I get up again, you are never gonna keep me down_ to their fellow operatives.

From that point on, the night evolved into an alcohol-fuelled karaoke competition. Reinhardt handed the tablet back to Lúcio, who became the designated song-finder. After the older man’s blow-away performance, aided by Zarya’s strong vocals, the others scrambled to sing their own favorite songs. McCree was surprised by the amount of actual “classics” they knew - Lena took the helm, singing a particularly interesting rendition of The Proclaimers’ “500 Miles,” pantomiming an exaggerated walk around the room along with the chorus. Zarya managed to engage everyone as “Thunderstruck” blasted behind her, stomping and yelling at them all to take a drink every time the word “thunder” was said during the song. Others preferred classics in their native languages; Hana danced and sang along to a number by one of her favorite older K-Pop groups, Lúcio took a break from DJing to perform an upbeat rendition of a Brazilian song, Genji enthusiastically sang something in robotic Japanese, and even Fareeha stood upon the makeshift stage of old crates that had been put together and sang a fun, pop-y tune in Arabic. 

The _thump-thump-thump_ of loud karaoke songs soon began to wind down, replaced by mellower melodies as the alcohol slowly began to make them tired. Angela began to sing a rather beautiful version of “Bennie and the Jets” that echoed around the room, accompanied by the song’s soothing Elton John piano track. McCree, nursing a pleasant buzz after having finished the handle of whiskey over the several-hour period, unwound his serape from his neck and rolled up the sleeves of the old flannel shirt he wore, making his way outside. There was someone who had been notably absent from the night’s festivities.

A small platform jutted out over Deadlock Gorge, accessible by a side door in the base. There, Hanzo sat. He was at the very edge of the platform, dangerously near to falling off; one leg hung from the side of the platform, swaying calmly. The archer held his canteen in one hand, taking a swig of what McCree assumed was his typical sake. The other was clenched into a fist at his side. 

“Mind if I sit?” McCree asked, approaching the other man. Hanzo grunted noncommittally, shrugging a shoulder as if to say _do as you please._

McCree lowered himself down to sit beside the archer, dangling both his legs off the platform’s edge. Deep below them, the river raged at the bottom of the gorge. Above them, desert stars spattered the night sky, a near-full moon shining bright amongst them. It cast a soft, silver glow on the canyon, bathing everything in pale light. Not for the first time, it occurred to McCree that the American southwest truly was a beautiful place. He could hear the faint sound of Angela crooning the lyrics to the song’s end and pressed his lips into a thin smile. 

McCree turned his head, studying Hanzo. The archer’s hair was mussed, falling out of its typical updo and dangling around his face and neck. He noticed an already-empty bottle of alcohol sitting beside the other man that must have been deftly snagged from inside while the party raged on; combined with the telltale red flush gracing his cheeks and neck, McCree knew the other man was as tipsy as himself.

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, McCree digging a cigar from his pocket and lighting it, Hanzo sipping sake. It was an old routine. A familiar one that they had become accustomed to - simply being together, passing time comfortable with the knowledge that they weren’t alone, that in the godforsaken world they were fighting for, at least they could always count on each other to be there. 

“Why didn’t you join in?” McCree asked, finally breaking the silence. Hanzo looked at him, eyes narrow.

“Join in what? The singing?”

“Mm,” he replied. “Thought you’d be all ‘bout it. Japanese, ‘n all.”

Hanzo snorted, the beginning of a wry smile curling the edges of his lips. “A stereotype.”

McCree shrugged, taking a drag of his cigar. “Stereotype or not, you would’a had fun. Could’a watched everyone gettin’ drunk with me. Hell, even your brother joined in. Not sure if he drank anythin’, though,” he mused. “Can a cyborg even get drunk?”

The archer’s face darkened at the mention of his brother. He crossed his arms, turning his gaze from McCree to look out across the gorge. “I do not think they would have appreciated me there,” he murmured.

McCree understood. He knew what it felt like to be an outsider in Overwatch. Part of the team, but not entirely. Accepted, but with stipulations. It was one of the reasons he felt a such a kinship with Hanzo; they were two of a kind, outcasts together. He reached out a sympathetic hand, patting the other man on the back. Hanzo leaned into the touch, and seemed contented as McCree left it there, thumb rubbing slow circles into the other man’s skin.

“Most of the time,” Hanzo mumbled, “I doubt they will ever accept me. They accept my skills, yes - I know that I am competent in battle, and most of them respect that. But as a person…” he trailed off, scrunching his nose and sipping from his bottle once more.

McCree simply sat and listened. The other man rarely opened up about himself and what he felt inside. Alcohol and misery had loosened his tongue, and McCree was content to nod along and lend a sympathetic ear.

“All of them know what I did to Genji. It is no secret. And I know they must resent me for that. After all, he is rather.. beloved. They are a good family to him.” Hanzo chuckled bitterly, white-knuckling his canteen. “Nobody wants to associate themselves with a brother-killer, after all.”

McCree’s hand slid down, wrapping around the other man’s waist. Hanzo didn’t flinch as he was slid toward McCree, and the distance that had previously been between them was closed until they sat thigh-to-thigh.

“Y’know,” McCree murmured, “it’s been a long while since I’ve been back here. Used t’be my watering hole. Always down ‘ere in the base with the gang. And then Overwatch came, got us all in a nasty sting-op, locked everyone up in prison. They gave me an ultimatum - join them, or rot in a cell.”

He took a drag of his cigar, one hand drifting up nonchalantly to tangle itself in the hair around the base of Hanzo’s neck. “So, ‘course, I joined. That was years ago. Back when Overwatch was still legal ‘n respected - not operatin’ in the dark out of dead bases. Years ‘n years. And you know what?”

Hanzo quirked an eyebrow at the question. 

“They still haven’t really accepted me, either. They all know what I did. Former criminal, ‘n all. I’m not quite the person you’d bring home t’meet your parents,” he chuckled. “But they’re good people. All of ‘em. Hell, they’re even better when they’re shitfaced. So, I say - fuck it. Who gives a damn what they think about you? No matter what, they’ll respect what you do for everyone, and they’ll respect that you’re tryin’ to redeem yourself for your past.”

McCree caught the ghost of a smile on Hanzo’s lips, and felt satisfied. He managed to lift the burden of anxiety, if just for a bit.

“You have wisdom beyond your years, Jesse,” Hanzo murmured. 

“That’s just the alcohol talkin’, sweetcheeks.”

Hanzo reached a hand up, settling it against McCree’s cheek. The cowboy leaned into the touch, enjoying the feel of the other man’s thumb dragging against his stubble, tracing the line of his jaw and settling on his lips. “You’re a better man than you think,” Hanzo whispered, and tilted McCree’s head down. His fingers curled around the back of the gunslinger’s neck and he pressed their lips together.

McCree was quick to reciprocate, lips moving against Hanzo’s, one hand cupping the side of the other man’s cheek and the other fisted tightly in the archer’s dark hair. He took control of the kiss and Hanzo tilted his neck back, faintly moaning in pleasure against McCree’s mouth. Sake and whiskey mingled together, mixed with the ashy taste of cigar smoke, and McCree opened his eyes and parted the kiss momentarily just so he could gaze at Hanzo, flushed and breathing hard, lips swollen and red, pale silver moonlight awash upon his skin.

“You’re beautiful, darlin’,” he murmured, and pressed their lips together once more.

Much to Hanzo’s obvious reluctance, a few minutes later McCree withdrew his lips and hands, brow furrowed.

“What is it?” the archer asked, and McCree held a finger up, shushing him.

From the base, McCree could hear the opening chords of “Sweet Caroline,” accompanied by - holy hell, was that _Morrison_ singing? 

“We have to go in. Now. There is no way in Hell I’m missin’ Morrison singing karaoke,” McCree said, standing up and grabbing Hanzo’s hand to pull him up as well.

The archer chuckled, amused as well by the prospect of their normally taciturn commander actually singing for a crowd. “Will you perform after him?” he asked, a teasing tone to his voice.

“Christ, I’m a terrible singer,” McCree replied. “Even then, I don’t know many songs that aren’t country. So, unless you’re really longin’ to hear me do a shit rendition of some Johnny Cash song, I ain’t goin’ up on that stage.”

“I might give you a little something later tonight if you sing,” Hanzo murmured, lips curved in a smirk as he slid a hand under the hem of McCree’s shirt and over his stomach, fingers hovering just under the top edge of his pants.

“‘Ring of Fire’ it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy to finally post my first overwatch fic! feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com) \- i love the game, the fandom, etc. and am always happy to meet new people.
> 
> the songs named, in no particular order - [thunderstruck](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2SoXxnlCUqk) by ac/dc, [tubthumping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LODkVkpaVQA) by chumbawamba, [500 miles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84CPo4bVkMk) by the proclaimers, [bennie and the jets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XEuIxfdumfc) by elton john (this is the version i imagined mercy singing tbh), and [sweet caroline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdW69V34GfY) by neil diamond.  
> i'm assuming that our "classics" are also still considered classics in whatever future overwatch is set in. the title is from "anna sun" by walk the moon. and, last but not least, [the clip that inspired this entire fic!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRJYCW_dCN4)


End file.
